“What do you want in here?” demanded Mantelle, springing from his chair. “Have you no eyes? Can’t you see that the room is taken?” “Just a moment,” said Nick, with the precinct-detective swagger. “I’m a police detective, you know.” “No, I don’t know,” replied the other hotly, “but if you are, what is that to me? Have the kindness to leave the room.” Chick was looking on in amused wonder. He had never seen his chief play that rôle before. “I have business with you,” said Nick, taking a chair. It seemed to Nick that a shade of anxiety, passed over the man’s face. “Well, proceed. What is it?” “You were here with Townsend and Maynard last night when the latter was murdered?” asked the detective. “You are wrong,” was the reply. “You don’t know what you are talking about.” “You were not here that night?” asked Nick. “Yes, I was here, but not with Mr. Townsend. He had left the place before I arrived, and I found Maynard waiting for him.” “You did not see Townsend that night?” asked Nick, regarding the fellow keenly. Mantelle hesitated. He looked like a man who was playing for time. “I was told that you saw him out on the pavement in front of this place,” said Nick, at a venture. “Well, what if I did? I do not at this time recall the incident, if I did see him; but what of it if I did?” “I am also informed,” said Nick, still making a bluff, “that you saw him pass down the street without making your presence known. Is that true?” “It is not true,” was the reply. “We have information at headquarters,” continued Nick, “that you walked on to the Wisconsin in his wake, and returned to the café only after the cry that a murder had been committed had been raised in the hotel.” “That is not true,” said Mantelle. “You did not go to the Wisconsin that night?” asked the detective. “I did not,” was the reply. “When you left here, leaving Maynard to look up his friend, where did you go?” “That is no affair of yours,” was the angry reply. Nick was doing a lot of guessing in his talk with the fellow, but he seemed to be making points. “Didn’t you go to the house of an African fortune teller on Houston Street?” asked the detective. “It is a lie!” almost shouted Mantelle. “What does all this questioning mean? Am I accused of the murder of Townsend? If so, take me to some competent person for examination. I am sick of your amateur efforts.” “All in good time,” said Nick. “After the destruction by fire of the house occupied by the African fortune teller, didn’t you visit a woman on the third floor of a tenement house near the Bowery?” Mantelle started. The woman sitting by his side seemed about to leave her chair, so excited and nervous were her movements. Chick began to see that his chief was no longer feeling around for a clue, but knew what he was about. “I did not visit such a place as you describe,” was the reply. “From this café I went directly to my rooms at the Cumberland.”